rejoicing that a few whispered words to Marguerite could have set in motion such a perfect plan. He’d not doubted, though, that Will would understand the cryptic message she’d borne-one simple word, “Chinon.” How could he fail when he had right and God and such valiant knights on his side?
When they wanted to know how he’d gotten out of the castle, he grinned and promised to tell them all about his ruse as soon as they were safely away. He was eager to share, for not many men could claim to have outwitted his father with such ease. Will’s concern about delay was justified, though, and it would have to wait.
He liked the looks of the stallion they’d chosen for him; it was pawing the grass, eager to run. So was Hal and he swung up into the saddle with a laugh of pure pleasure. His eyes moving from face to face, he felt such a surge of affection for these men that his throat tightened and his eyes misted. “Songs will be sung and tales told of the events of this night. We’ll soon have my father’s hounds on our trail. But this is one fox that will not be caught!” He put spurs to his horse, then, the wind carrying echoes of his laughter back through the silent streets of the sleeping village.
“ My Lord! Wake up, my Lord!”
Henry opened his eyes, quickly closed them to shut out the glare of torchlight. His head was throbbing and he wanted only to spiral down into sleep again. But the voices were insistent. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw tense faces floating above him.
“Harry!” This was his brother’s voice, and he guessed that it was Hamelin’s hand clamped upon his shoulder. Opening his eyes again, he gazed blearily at the men hovering around the bed. What was the matter with him? His head felt as if it were stuffed with cobwebs.
“My lord king, you must get up.” Willem was standing beside Hamelin. “Your son is gone. He has fled the castle.”
Henry blinked, his gaze sweeping the chamber. Nearby, his squires lay on their pallets, snoring peacefully. But Hal’s bed was empty. “What do you mean he is gone? What time is it?”
“Nigh on dawn, my liege.”
Sitting up with an effort, Henry saw that his castellan was in the chamber, too. Why was he having so much trouble making sense of this? He’d always awakened like a cat, instantly on the alert. “Fetch that basin,” he ordered and when Hamelin brought it to the bed, he splashed water onto his face. It was frigid, a thin sheen of ice coating the surface, and the shock chased away the last of his grogginess.
“What are you saying? How could Hal have gotten out of the castle?”
“These dolts lowered the drawbridge for him.” Glaring over his shoulder, the castellan gestured and three terrified young men were shoved forward. Shrinking back, they stared mutely at the king as the castellan gave Henry an angry summary of the night’s events. “So they stood there, grinning like jackanapes, and waved him on his way,” he concluded caustically. “And it took half the night ere they realized that he was not coming back, and then another hour or so until they mustered the courage to summon me.”
One of the youths stumbled forward and fell to his knees by the bed. “Forgive us, my liege,” he pleaded. “He wanted to tumble a wench, and we could see no harm in it. We did not let him take a horse.” He swallowed, looking up at Henry with silent tears streaking his face. “He played us for fools, sire…I am so sorry!”
“He played us all for fools,” Henry said, but he was still struggling with disbelief. Could Hal have truly done this? Could he have been so cunning, so false? So heartless? “I am a light sleeper,” he said. “How could he have been sure that I’d not awaken…” And then he caught his breath, comprehension coming like a blow. His eyes moved from the flagon of night wine on the table to his squires, still sleeping in the midst of turmoil, and for a fleeting moment, he saw, too, a silver wine cup filled with hippocras.
“He put it in the wine,” he whispered. They looked at him blankly, and he said it again, needing to hear the words spoken aloud, for only then could he believe them. “The sleeping draught.” Sweet Mary, Mother of God. “The sleeping draught for that convenient toothache of his.”
“My lord king…” Willem reached out, clasped his hand in a warm, firm grip. “What would you have us do?”
Henry’s head came up. “Saddle the horses.”
The castellan at once headed for the door. Hamelin was trying to awaken the squires, without any luck. Willem, glancing toward the forgotten guards, dismissed them with an abrupt gesture. They fled the chamber, not daring to look back, and Willem began to gather up clothing for the king. Henry was already on his feet. Grabbing garments from the earl, he dressed quickly and silently. Willem waited, wisely saying nothing, but Hamelin could not hold his tongue.
“How could he do this? I would never have thought him capable of such treachery.” Moving toward his brother, he came to a hesitant halt, not sure what to do next. “Harry…Harry, I am so sorry!”
Henry looked at him. “So am I,” he said at last, and then added in a voice that sent chills along Hamelin’s spine, “but not as sorry as that traitorous whelp will be.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
March 1173
Poitiers, Poitou
The window-seat was cushioned, and sunlight was filtering into the solar over Maud’s shoulder, for they were double windows and covered with thin sheets of horn, which admitted more light than the usual linen screens. A blazing hearth and woolen wall hangings shut out the chill, and the fireplace had a feature that Maud had not seen before: a stone hood that kept the smoke from escaping into the chamber by funneling it up the chimney. The floor rushes were fresh and fragrant; Maud had been impressed to learn that they were changed weekly, for she knew some English barons who’d consider it extravagant to replace them more than once a year. One of Eleanor’s musicians was strumming a plaintive melody on his gittern, two of her ladies were embroidering pillow covers, and her favorite greyhound was sprawled, belly-up, before the fire. A third attendant was reading aloud for their entertainment the sorrowful tale of star-crossed lovers Tristan and Iseult. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and Maud thought again that they knew how to live well in Aquitaine. Little wonder Eleanor had yearned for her homeland during her years of marital exile, for neither Paris nor London could match the splendors-or the comforts- of Poitiers.
Eleanor was not stitching as her ladies were, and Maud realized that she’d never seen her friend with a needle in her hand. Her aunt, the Empress Maude, had not been one for embroidery either. Maud supposed it was a small but subtle form of rebellion, for even queens were expected to do needlework, to occupy themselves with womanly tasks.
As for herself, Maud did not object to this particular domestic duty. She was a skilled seamstress and enjoyed exercising her imagination with needle and thread. Her current project was an elegant chrysom cloth of fine linen. In four years of marriage, her daughter-in-law Bertrada had already given birth to three children, and so Maud thought it only logical that there’d be a need again for christening attire in the coming twelvemonth. She was sorry Bertrada was not with her at Poitiers, for she’d become quite fond of the girl, but her daughter-by-marriage had insisted upon returning to England with Ranulf, Rhiannon, and Rainald.
She’d been surprised that Hugh had not taken Bertrada when he’d departed on pilgrimage after Christmas to the holy Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela. Their separation might be for the best, though, giving Bertrada time to recover from her last confinement. She knew of no woman who’d want to face the birthing chamber every year, much less a lass who was barely seventeen.
Thinking of difficult deliveries called John’s birth to mind, and she glanced toward the queen. Eleanor was seated at a table, occupied with pen and parchment, which aroused Maud’s always-lively curiosity; a letter must be very private indeed if it could not be entrusted to a scribe. She was amusing herself by speculating about the nature of her friend’s confidential message when the door suddenly banged open, with enough force to startle them all.
Richard swept into the chamber like a whirlwind; that was the only way Maud could describe his dramatic entrance. He was so flushed that he seemed to be feverish, and he looked eerily like his father in his rage. He was followed by Raoul de Faye and a third man who was a stranger to Maud. Slamming the door behind him, Richard
